Seven Strings
by Littlefoot the Warrior
Summary: SEQUEL TO Return of the Dead. Its three years later, and Sherlock is staying hidden as a hitman for a mysterious employer. When Molly is forced to become a member of an enemy hitgroup, John's, Mycroft's, Lizzie's, and Sherlock's lives are all in danger, and Sherlock must choose to kill the woman he loves, or face death-AGAIN. Sherlock/Molly, John/OC, rated M for sex and violence.
1. Chapter 1

3 years later

A tall, black silhouette of a man can alone be seen in the night. He stands, looking down into a Moroccan alleyway. The moonlight shines on his back, and the man disappears.

He lands on a balcony, and dust flitters all around him. The man draws a thin pistol from his jacket pocket, and after taking a deep breath, punches through the window behind him.

He rolls onto the floor, avoiding scraping himself on the broken glass. Gunshots are fired at the man, but he is too quick–he avoids them at no cost. The man returns fire, and his target is now dead. He bends down to check the pulse of the neck, and feel his heartbeat through his bare chest.

Sebastian Moran is now dead.

The tall man stands upwards, wiping a thin layer of sweat from his brow. He turns on his heel, and leaves the small house in the slums the same way he came in.

The moonlight now shines on his face. Sherlock Holmes scales the stucco wall, over to a drainpipe. Sliding down it, he quickly hops onto a stranger's motorcycle, and rides out of the city.

Just hours later, Sherlock Holmes is sitting in a Rio de Janero taxicab, reading a list. Half the names on it are crossed off in red ink, the other half normal. A few minutes later, he turns on the "Off Duty" signal, and exits the taxi. He crosses another name off the list.

He hails another taxi, and asks to go back to the airport. The driver, an old man, obliges, based on the fact that Sherlock is still holding the gun, with a little blood splattered on his face. Sherlock wiped it off with his jacket sleeve.

Less than an hour later, Sherlock was aboard a plane to Miami.

**-.-.-.-.-**

"Excuse me, sir, would you mind if this passenger takes the neat next to you?" the flight attendant bends down to ask Sherlock.

"No, not at all." He gives her a nod, without smiling. A short woman shuffles past him to get to the window seat.

"Traveling? I thought I told you better." Lizzie muttered. Sherlock groaned.

"What are you doing in Rio? Didn't you and John just get engaged?"

"I could ask you the same thing, minus the getting engaged part."

"Alright then. I have a hit list. And I am making progress." He whispered to her. "Your turn."

"Not yet." She reached inside his sport coat, and removed his list. She scanned it. "Sherlock, most of the people on this list are in no relation to you."

"I am aware."

"Then why are they on this list?" she furrowed her eyebrows at him. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"I may or may not have been employed by a person of interest." He shrugs, snatches the list back from Lizzie, and stuffs it in his coat.

"You are a _hit man?"_ Lizzie stares at him, astounded. "Do you realize just what you are getting into?"

"I know perfectly well of my situation, Elizabeth. I am under a false name so that my employer does not know of my true existence."

"Oh, and what would that be?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you." He muttered, irritating Lizzie even further.

"Sherlock Holmes, if you don't get out of this right now–"

"What could you possibly do? Tell my _brother_ on me? Remember that the whole word thinks I'm dead. Again. So please, do keep yourself calm, and tell me why it is that you have decided to visit Rio and take a plane directly to Miami."

Lizzie looked at him, stunned. She knew he was right, though. Reaching into her carry-on, Lizzie pulled out a file.

"I came to find you. Good thing my training with Moriarty's people taught me how to hack into CCTV." She opened the file. "It seems that Molly Hooper has gone under the radar. I don't mean under your kind of radar either… she quite literally disappeared from thin air. No body, no prints, but the last place she was seen, well, killing somebody in an alley in south London." Lizzie produced photographs that obviously came from a CCTV camera in said alley. Sherlock studied the slightly blurry image. The man that lay dead on the floor, Sherlock recognized to be a man on his list. He immediately crossed it off.

"That's my girl." He muttered, putting the list back.

"Sherlock, if she's going after the same men you are, she's gonna find you." Lizzie reminded him. Out of the file, she pulled a document printed from a computer. "This was found on her at the time of her arrest."

"Wait, she was arrested after the murder?"

"Oh yes. And she disappeared straight from the back of the patrol car. The cuffs they had on her sat on the seat, nicely folded. She disappeared _while_ they were driving. Neither officer heard anything. It's quite the mystery, isn't it?" Lizzie handed him the document. Sherlock studied it.

His eyes narrowed as he took out his hit list. Pairing them side-by-side, he noticed that the people on his list matched the same ones on her list. The Company title at the top was different, instead of a star cut in half inside a circle, there was a red lotus flower. There were three more names on her list than on Sherlock's:

101: John Watson

102: Mycroft Holmes

103: Dejan LeDuca

"That's why she left." He muttered.

"Who the hell is Dejan LeDuca? He's not on your list." Lizzie pointed out with her finger.

"I'm Dejan LeDuca." Sherlock muttered.

"What is more important, Sherlock, is that she's after you, your brother, and John, and nobody in the bloody world can find her. Trust me, all your brother's men are out looking for her. John's being put through witness protection, thus cancelling our engagement, and Mycroft is somewhere under the city in a secret bunker that absolutely no one can get in but him!"

"She's a member of the Red Lotus. She obviously didn't choose to become a member, they abduct you off the street and brainwash you. They pick people who are small but nimble, able to fit themselves through tiny spaces, like air ducts. Molly is an incredibly small person, its no surprise they got to her. If she does find me, she'll have a hard time to not kill me."

"I'm just surprised that I'm not on this list." Lizzie muttered, rolling back her shoulders.

"You don't exist, the Red Lotus doesn't know you're alive. To them, you're just Mary Mostran, the girl who was going to marry John Watson."

"Right, I keep forgetting I'm supposed to be called that." She leans back in her seat.

"Never forget your alias, Ms. Mostran. It is what keeps you breathing." Sherlock sighed. He removed a cigarette from his coat pocket, and immediately lit it up. The flight attendant glared at him, but did nothing. He was in business class, after all. Lizzie only groaned inwardly at his act of annoyance, and crossed her arms over her chest.

-.-.-.-

In Miami, Lizzie parted ways with Sherlock. She took a plane back to London, while he left the airport, in search of his next target, one Cassandra Keys. As he researched her on his smart phone, his taxi driver talked away at him, saying that hardly anyone takes yellowcabs anymore. Sherlock chose to ignore him, and upon the cab stopping at one of the most expensive hotels in Miami. Sherlock paid him with one of the many hundred dollar bills he was given by his employers, and swiftly exited the cab. He walked right past the front desk, and proceeded to the elevators, where the annoying elevator attendant tried talking him up.

"Let me guess, a recent college dropout, looking for money, but has no real skills. You heard about this place because someone you know recommended it to you when you told them you were broke, and took the job without much consideration; you hate working here because your day is so terribly boring but you cannot find work anywhere else, so everyday you try to strike up a conversation with anyone riding the lift because it made you feel less lonely but everyday you are stood up by wealthier people of higher power. Oh yes, and you're shagging one of the maids." Sherlock finished when the lift doors opened.

"Shag-whatting?" the attendant demanded to know, but the doors had already closed behind Sherlock.

The wide hallway was lined with many doors, and eventually gave way to a single, empty corridor, with one large door at the end. Sherlock wasted no time in forcing the door open. The large suite opened into a massive sitting room, with large windows overlooking the coastline. He crossed the room, stepping directly over furniture, to get to the master bedroom. His gun was already in his hand as he opened the door, and saw the woman, patiently awaiting him by the window.

"Irene?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: If anybody remembers the first chapter of The Return of the Dead, Irene and Sherlock have a thing. This chapter is particularly Irene/Sherlock.**

**Also, Sherlock is quite OOC, but I feel he would be that way around Irene, who I think brings out the sexual side in him, while Molly brings out the compassionate side.**

**So sorry, short chapter. **

* * *

"Irene?" Sherlock/Dejan LeDuca stares at the woman dressed in red, her shoulder-length black hair pinned up like it used to. She turns to face him, with just the same amount of shock on her face as there is on his.

"Well, Sherlock, this is quite the surprise." She says sadly, walking away from the window towards him. Her eyes raked up and down his body, finally landing on the gun in his hand. "I take it you are here for Cassandra. No, don't deny it. We both know that's your reason. I've made myself too loud, it seems. Pity, that is, I quite liked having her name as mine."

"I can't kill you, Irene." Sherlock stammered.

"You have to." She replied quickly. "Sherlock I know I've done terrible things and I know why you were sent to kill me. Just do it."

"Why do you want to die?" He questioned her, one of the two women he loved so much.

"I've got too many fingers in too many pies." She simply shrugged. Irene pulled the throw blanket she had around her shoulders tighter, completely covering her red dress. "I guess I'm tired of running. And its better to be put down by the one you love than a complete stranger, right?"

"Don't talk like that." Sherlock shook his head, his mind reeling. He couldn't fathom why Irene was willing for this to happen. "I won't kill you."

"Sherlock, or whatever your alias is," Irene stepped towards him, closing the large gap between them. "I am not a good person, and I know I'm not much use to the world. If you don't kill me, they'll kill you."

"How can you be okay with this?" Sherlock looked down at her, placing a hand on her cheek. Suddenly, his mind went to Molly, lost in the world, a completely different person. He couldn't imagine the small, dainty woman he loved so much killing people that _really_ had no relation to her.

Then his mind returned to Irene. He loved her intelligence, how she could match him in any form of knowledge. He loved her mysteriosity, the way she could move around and Sherlock could not read her.

"I'm not. I just know that you are too great of a man to die for me." She blinked back to him. The tall, dark hitman leaned down, his lips chastely pressing against her red ones, his hand releasing the gun onto the floor. Irene's soft hands held onto the biceps that hid underneath two layers of clothing, bracing herself while returning the hot, fiery passion that escaped Sherlock's mouth.

He pulled the throw blanket from off her shoulders, tossing it across the room. While Sherlock's hands found the zipper to her dress, Irene undid the buttons of his shirt. All clothes were on the floor in mere seconds, Sherlock's naked body pressed against the Woman's. His hands were all over her chest, down to her hips, across her back, and up to her neck again, his mouth working fast and hard against hers. She pulled him back towards the bed, pulling the much taller man on top of her. Sherlock's lips sucked and kissed down her chin, under her neck, and across her collarbones. Irene's fingers intertwined with his mop of hair, letting small moans of pleasure escape her mouth.

The kisses moved farther down her body, then back up, Sherlock's mouth ravenously tasting her soft skin. When their mouths met again, they were both hot and ready, their bodies aching for the contact they had awaited for so many years.

Their slim bodies blended together between the sheets in the evening heat of summer in Miami, every point of contact screaming in passion. Sherlock's hands explored every inch of her back, as his love bore through her. When he stopped, and removed himself from atop her body, they were breathless, skin glistening in sweat.

"Have you learned what I like yet?" Sherlock joked, a smile that had not truly existed for years sneaking its way across his face.

"You are quite animalistic in your methods. Despite your mental awareness, you seek conventional sex. I admire a man who enjoys the traditional ways." Irene replied scientifically. As they both caught their breath, Sherlock could find himself drifting into a state of zone. His senses dulled as he catalogued every part of Irene into his mind palace, remembering every embrace. Sherlock was ripped from himself when Irene's voice poured into his ears.

"Take care, my love. I hope you find Miss Hooper." She spoke quickly, fear hiding in the corners of her voice. Sherlock looked up in time to hear the softest click, and see blood pouring from her mouth, the gun that was Sherlock's pressed under her chin. Blood roared through his ears, as he rushed forward to catch the woman as her body dropped.

"No." he stifled, searching her empty eyes, no longer seeing the woman he made love to just minutes before. Now the first woman he fell in love with hung limp in his arms, her eyes wide and unseeing and tears no longer flowing.

Then Sherlock did something he hadn't done in a long time.

He cried.

-.-.-

Sherlock left the room just minutes later, fully dressed and eyes red. Miss Adler had falsified her death many times over, but this was real. He watched it happen. There was absolutely no mistaking the dead woman laid out peacefully on the floor, hands together, eyes closed, and a silk sheet carefully draped head-to-toe.

Sherlock could barely contain himself as he crossed her name off his hitlist. He hid himself in the men's room of the hotel lobby, gripping the countertop with white knuckles. Every fibre of his body cried out in loss, as the three years of hiding his emotions suddenly came crashing down around him, the sociopath in him gone.

Sherlock looked up at his reflection in the mirror. He hardly recognized himself; eyes puffy and red, bottom lip quivering like an idiot's. Sherlock cursed himself for even having such stupid emotions. Right now, his priority was to pick off every target on his hitlist before Molly could catch up. In a final act of grief, he grabbed the complimentary glass cologne bottle off the counter and hurled it across the bathroom, the bottle shattering on contact with the wall. He straightened his back, dried his cheeks and eyes on the sleeve of his jacket, and left the hotel.

He had work to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the lateness. I know, I suck, but I'm not that great a person to begin with.**

**Some little insight on Molly for y'alls**

* * *

Molly Hooper, 28, former Medical Examiner at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London, England, was quite the ordinary girl. She lived for the day her silly crush would ever show or reciprocate feelings for her, and spent every day up to then being the best person she could be. Her heart was a kind one; and even though she could stand her own ground, she never acted out of malice.

Then Jim Moriarty came along. They didn't date long; just three dates, until Miss Hooper broke it off when Sherlock suggested it. She would later pretend that it was her own choice to end the short romance, but in truth, everyone knew she did it because of Sherlock.

Sherlock's cases became more dangerous, as he worked less for the police and more as a private detective. Never had Molly gotten involved. Then Jim came back, and Sherlock had to die. But neither would ever let that happen, and the world's only consulting detective turned to simple Molly Hooper for help, the bright girl with the mousy hair. She knew her involvement with Holmes was dangerous, and knowing where he was gave her something else to worry about at night.

They expected a year, maybe three, before Sherlock could return. Moriarty's web of spies and gangs was still there, and without its spider, a web cannot be repaired after it is taken down. But nobody ever expects a new spider to take its place.

After a debacle of events, Sherlock returned to London just months after the Fall. Then came Oslo, the Fakers, and Theodore Moriarty with Sebastian Moran. This time, Molly has found that Sherlock has died for his final time.

And thus ended her life as she knew it.

Everything was different. There was no more 221b Baker Street, no more Mrs. Hudson, the worlds most notorious criminal family was gone, Dr. John Watson removed himself from working with the police, and crimes in London more often went unsolved.

Nearly three years after, Miss Hooper found herself walking down Long Lane to the Barbrican Metro stop after work. Her work had become dull and tiresome, and the year itself seemed to edge on at a snail's pace.

Sometimes she scolded herself for not simply paying for a taxi to come and get her, as even though the walk was not far, the slight feeling of a rope being pulled on from her spinal chord gave her fear that the shadows would close in on her.

With a new, faster pace of walking, Molly ducked around the corner and right down the stairwell of the subway station. The familiar scent of mold and stale air greeted her on the platform, and the few other people around her gave her the slight reassurance of safety.

Sitting down on one of the many seats in the train car, Molly checked her phone, as her old (but not very old) friend Lizzie tried to call her near the end of her shift.

_~Hi, Molly, it's Lizzie. I'm just calling to cancel dinner tomorrow night, I'm terribly sorry, but John's in Edinburg and a family emergency had just come up for me in Liverpool. Maybe next week? Again, I'm terribly sorry. Call me back!~ End of message. Delete, press_–

She jammed her thumb down on 7, deleting the message. Molly knew she shouldn't be getting too worked up about a simple rain-check, but she hadn't seen Lizzie or John in weeks, and their wedding was eight months away. Molly was, of course, Lizzie's maid of honor, as her former occupation wouldn't allow her to have any connection to friends or family. That had changed, of course, when she was given the job of being a Faker for Molly herself, and everything "went to shit."

The train came to a rattling stop, and Molly hopped off. Her flat kickers made hardly any sound on the hard floor of the metro station, the only other sound being a train arriving on the opposite platform.

Her home was not far from that particular stop; perhaps a five-minute walk if she were fast. It was January, and a faint dusting of snow made the sidewalk sparkle in the streetlight. Taxis left trails on the street, showing where some drive straight and the others slightly off.

As her foot landed on an icy patch, it flew out in front of her, knocking Molly off her feet. Instantly, a fair of arms caught her, keeping the rest of her body from landing on the ground.

"Oh, thank you so much!" she smiled, as the stranger helped her back on her feet. When she turned around, a familiar-foul-smelling white cloth was pressed up to her nose and mouth, and she was falling, falling forever–

* * *

_**Later**_

Machines whizzed around her, their humming irritating her ears, making her teeth grind against each other. What she could see was a room painted white all around, white tile floors, no windows, and a singular bright light bulb making everything even whiter. Molly's arms, legs and chest were all tied into a chair, her coat and shoes stripped from her body. She tried to turn her head, but found that such feat was impossible–a helmet of sorts, strapped under the chin, was unmovable. Fear clenched her stomach, and her breathing became shallow as Molly tried to find a way to move.

"Fucking–"

"That's no way for a lady to speak." Said a man, as three people came in the room– two men, one woman. All were dressed in black, jeans and leather and cotton shirts. The woman had curly red hair that was tied into a tight bun, the man who had spoken was Asian in appearance, and the third man was dark-skinned and bald.

"Please, let me go." Molly begged quietly.

"I'm not an idiot, Miss…" he pulled a small card from his pocket, "Hooper. I am not your enemy, either. Your reason for being here is simple; I need agents, you are small, and of course, in the wrong place at the wrong time. For you, at least. What's going to happen to you is simple: my people are going to do whatever it takes to make you one of the better agents I have, and you are going to like it and obey every command I give you. Danny, Jackson, you may start on the girl. Give her two weeks of hard training, then we can give Miss Hooper her first assignment." The man who appeared to be the leader then stood up.

"What? Are you crazy, I have nothing to do with–"

"Nobody has anything to do with anybody, until someone does something about it. If you have never heard of us, then I welcome you to the Red Lotus." And with that, he turned around, and left Molly in the room with Danny and Jackson. Jackson, the bald man, flipped a switch on a machine next to Molly, and the sharp whirring grew in volume until it was a roar, and soon the wires she didn't know she was hooked up to crackled with electricity.

And then nothing would ever be right again.


End file.
